


Long Are the Waves

by Grond



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bards, Canon-Typical Violence, Elf Culture & Customs, Elves, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, First Age, Flashbacks, Forests, Foster Care, Gen, Grey Havens, Guilt, Lindon (Tolkien), Music, Musicians, Noldolante, Oath of Fëanor, Ocean, Post-War of the Ring, Pre-Lord of The Rings, Protective Elrond, Quests, Rivendell | Imladris, Sailing To Valinor, Second Age, Singing, The Noldor, Third Age, Travel, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grond/pseuds/Grond
Summary: Elrond has his own, strange quest to embark upon before leaving Middle-earth. He has not seen his foster father in thousands of years. Though Maglor is said to wander by the sea, no one has heard any news of him in an Age.Elrond does not seek to find or destroy any object, powerful or otherwise. What he wants is both more simple and more complex: to take his father with him, or wish him farewell. He does not know if Maglor can be found, but that will not stop him from making the attempt. The lonely shores call to him, and so does a song in the distance...Written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020, this work is a collaboration, based onthis illustration by mallornblossom.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 45
Kudos: 158
Collections: Genuary 2021, Old Pineapple's Favs, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Woodland Fire

**Author's Note:**

> _I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.  
>  Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,  
> Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling…_  
> —Legolas' "Song of the Sea"

A scrim of cloud veiled the stars, and the flickering campfire marked the brightest spot in this quarter of the dark forest. The two Men who had drawn close to the flames were not overly concerned with hiding their presence. Relatively recently, it would have been considered foolhardy for a pair of hunters to let a fire burn so unrestrained, making its presence known throughout the shadowy western woods with flame and smoke. 

These Men appeared unconcerned about any danger, until one of them started, glancing up from the fire flickering before him. His smooth features were creased by a tension that would have been more in keeping with fears of the treacherous past. "Do you hear that?" He was the younger of the two men. He could not have known more than twenty summers, and had probably seen a few less than that.

His companion—older and leaner, the silver strands streaking his beard bright in the firelight—replied slowly: "How could I not hear it?"

They both fell silent, listening. Over the welcome crackle of the fire, another, more ethereal sound rose and fell with a vitality that was matched by the heaviness of its tone. It had the air of both a festival and a funeral. It was flowing and musical, but it was not precisely "music". That word alone was not enough to contain it, as if it were a wider and wilder entity that known music was descended from.

"What _is_ it?" asked the younger man, after a while. He might have been the elder's son. Their features were similar, the same dark eyes gazing from faces that had the same shape, despite their differences. 

"Singing," said the elder. A simple answer, and true, but not adequate for what they were hearing.

"Singing?" The echoed question was incredulous. Like the word "music", "singing" was not sufficient. "What could make such a sound? It must be—" He broke off. He seemed unable to imagine any possible explanation.

"What else could it be, if not someone singing?"

The youth had no answer for that, and the two grew quiet again, listening to the otherworldly melody in stillness and silence, as if transfixed by an ancient spell. The scrim obscuring the sky fractured, letting the clear, pale light of the stars fall through. It was not until the sound diminished into an echo and then faded that the enchantment fell away from the Men, and they could move and speak once more. The older one grunted and nodded. "It went away up the coast. I thought it would."

"You knew? Then—you've heard that before?"

The Man did not reply immediately, as if a scrap of enchantment still clung to him, slowing him. When he replied, his voice was low. "I have, yes. Before you were born. When I was about your age—" He reached out to ruffle his companion's hair, with a soft laugh. "You might not believe me when I say I was once your age, but I was, and I heard it a few times back then. Your grandparents told me they heard it when they were children. It's been years. I didn't think I'd hear it again… But it must have come back."

"It? But what is it?"

"One of the fair folk, could be. That's what your grandmother said."

"Fair folk? Do you really believe that?" The young man laughed, shaking his head. "It sounds like an old story."

"What's wrong with old stories? Like old men, they have a lot to say. Those folk used to travel among us. I've never seen one myself, but—" 

"Then how do you know they're real?"

The older man smiled. "I may not have seen them, but I've seen and heard enough to know a few things. And when you look back on what we heard tonight, you might start to believe in Elves."

The two of them fell silent again, as if trying to recall the haunting sound they had heard drifting toward them from the shoreline. The forest around them was quiet too, as if it also wished to summon back that song that was more than a song: a lay as beautiful as it was sorrowful. Finally, the younger Man spoke again, as if struggling to sum up what they had experienced. "It was beautiful."

"Wasn't it?" asked the elder, and both of them smiled.

The Men did not guess that they were not alone, and that they were being watched from the shadows. Hidden from their eyes by dark and distance, Elrond smiled with them. He was not in the least offended by the suggestion that he might not exist. It did him good to hear this talk and know that it was the speech of people living in a time of peace. The Men who lived in these wild lands had faced hardship on account of the war, but they had been at a remove from the greater part of it. As such, they had been spared knowledge that would have brought them pain and confusion. Forlindon's forests were far from Gondor. It was a land that had begun to slumber in its age, but in its youth, it had known many battles and many Elves. If its people were to forget about Elves, Elrond would not mind so much, especially if they were able to forget the turmoil of war in the process.

Though he had keen hearing, Elrond did not make a habit of eavesdropping on the conversations of others. It was the fire that had drawn him close, in curiosity. It was the singing that had made him stay. He, too, had been unable to move while that voice shimmered and shivered beneath the sky. The Men had been transfixed by it because they had found it alien. For Elrond, it was the opposite. The very familiarity of it was like a bolt shot through his heart, rendering him immobile.

He moved away from the men, returning their privacy to them, although they did not know he had briefly taken it. As he turned back to glance at the fire's warmth one last time, he mouthed a single word: _Father_.


	2. Seaside Cave

The blaze of light from the cave mouth was terrifying: a sinister silver streaked with an unnatural, angry scarlet. It radiated an enormous amount of heat. It was yards away, but Elrond could already feel its warmth on his skin as it approached slowly and steadily. The heat and light had a focused air of malice, especially because they emanated not from a flame, but from an Elf. No, not truly an Elf. It was a monster that had taken the shape of an Elf. What ordinary Elf could burn so bright? Its face was contorted, teeth bared, and the flames it gave off traveled the length of its broad sword: hungry and vivid.

Elrond was dazed by fear, but he was aware that Elros stood between him and the fire monster, protecting him from its glare. He hadn't meant to hide behind Elros. That was how they had been standing when it entered the cave, and now Elrond found himself frozen. Their attendants had told them not to speak or move. They had tried to be as quiet as possible, to hide from the attacking enemies, but it had not been enough to save them. Now the enemy was here, and Elrond could not make himself move. His heart seemed the only part of him that yet could, racing in his chest. He wished he could run too, away from this place, and take Elros with him. To a place where they would both be safe.

Elrond heard the whisper and roar of the sea as its waves struck the cliff wall outside the cave. The monster continued to advance. Elros remained on his feet, facing it. Belatedly, Elrond saw that Elros was holding the knife Mother had given him. Elrond had an exact copy of that knife, its twin, but he didn't know where it had gone. He didn't know where anything was—where had their attendants gone? More importantly, where was Mother? A sick, metallic scent hung heavy in the air, overpowering the scent of the sea. Outside, someone started to scream: a wail rising above the voice of the waves. Had the monster attacked everyone by itself? It looked fierce enough to have done so.

The scene was so unreal, it had to be a nightmare. When was he going to wake up? Elrond wished to awaken _now_ , with more force and eagerness than anything he'd wished for before, but he didn't wake up. The monster came closer. Time had slowed, but no matter how much time he had, he still couldn't move, his feet affixed to the floor. Elros continued to hold his knife aloft, as if he held some last grim hope that he could protect them both.

The Red Monster's eyes were almost blindingly bright, and Elrond didn't know how it could see them through that light. It raised its sword. The expression on its face was cold and dead, in contrast to the heat it gave off. When it stood over them, light flaring in its unblinking eyes, Elrond was finally able to move. All he could do was propel himself unthinkingly forward, joining his brother and wrapping an arm around Elros' waist. He wasn't sure why. He wanted to help him, to be near him. He didn't want Elros to have to face the monster alone. He was here to support him, always. The monster raised its sword higher.

In the pause before the blade descended, there was a flurry of light and movement. A shining, solid form leapt between them and the Red Monster. Another Elf! This Elf was glowing softly, and Elrond immediately guessed who it must be. "Father?" He must have come back at last, to save them!

"It isn't Father." Elros, who had a better view of the newcomer, corrected him with a quick whisper. Elrond could see little from behind Elros' back. Their memories of father were dim, but they remembered his face, so Elrond trusted his brother's words.

Elrond's sharp disappointment at the news Father had not returned for them was accompanied by a rush of cooling relief, as the new arrival stood firm between them and the Red Monster, with an arm upraised just below the blade of the bright sword, warding it off. "No, you cannot do this," he said. His voice was low but did not waver. "Please. I beg you."

Emboldened by their reprieve, some strength returned to Elrond's legs, and he was able to shift and peek at the scene from behind Elros' shoulder. He half-expected the monster to continue to attack once it recovered from its surprise. Instead, it glared at the Elf that had dared to defy it. To Elrond's surprise, its dead expression began to take on life, and the light in its eyes diminished. "Kano. Stand aside." It spoke like an Elf, although it did not truly look like one.

Their new guardian did not falter. Beneath his soft glow, his hair was dark as midnight. "They are children."

"Stand aside." The Red Monster repeated itself. 

"No, I will not allow it. If you would strike at them, then you must strike at me first."

The blade of the monster's sword was almost touching the dark-haired Elf's arm, but it remained motionless. "We swore an Oath. You know what we must do."

"I know what I swore, and it was not to strike down these children. The jewel is gone! You know it, and I know it. I can feel it. I mean what I say, Nelyo."

"There can be no exceptions."

"You will have to cut through me to reach them."

The words they spoke made perfect sense individually, yet Elrond was too confused to understand them all together. Elrond watched them with intense curiosity mixed with intense fear, half-certain that at any moment, the Red Monster would charge around the Elf defending them and strike them down, or strike its way through their newfound protector to reach them. The monster raised its sword higher— then brought it down, but not to strike. The blade was thrust roughly into a sheath that it wore at its hip, like a real person with a real weapon. The monster's halo of red light began to dim. 

With its light fading, the Red Monster was no longer a horrifying mass of angry fire. It wore clothes and armor. Oddly, Elrond belatedly noticed, it had only one hand. The monster stared at the dark-haired Elf for a long, grim moment. Finally, the monster sighed, and it almost looked like a true Elf. "You know I cannot not do that," it said.

"I know," said the dark-haired Elf. His voice was grim, but when he turned, and Elrond saw his face for the first time, he was smiling. The gentleness of his expression contrasted the Red Monster's severity, but Elrond's first thought when he saw that face was, _His eyes are so sad_. His second thought was that, although this Elf was smiling so kindly at him, he was spattered with blood.

In the next moment, with a burst of strength and speed, Elros escaped his grasp, lunging forward to strike at the dark-haired Elf called Kano with his knife. Elrond gasped. The movement was so sudden and unexpected, the Elf did not have time to react. Elros' knife struck the side of the stranger's hand, cutting a line through his flesh, but was shortly deflected by the rim of his metal bracer. This knocked the blade from Elros hand, and it fell to the cave floor. The sound of the metal striking stone was unnaturally loud as it echoed through the cave. Elros stumbled backward, and Elrond caught him and held him up. He couldn't let his brother fall. 

Elros' attack had not done great harm, but he had opened a gash in the stranger's hand. Blood streamed from it, down his fingers. When the Red Monster saw what had happened, his light flared again, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. Elrond steeled himself, afraid that the stranger would turn against them now and let the monster have them. He was afraid, but he wouldn't run. He would stay with his brother and face this. He found his voice. Keeping it as steady as he could, he commanded, "Leave us alone." 

The strange Elf glanced down at the wound on his hand, then returned his attention to Elrond and Elros. The hostility Elrond had anticipated did not appear on his face. He lowered himself slowly to his knees before them. His hands were empty, although he, too, was armed, with a sheathed sword at each hip. "I cannot do that," he said, "but I will not harm you. This I promise you."

Elrond felt Elros start to shudder at these words. Elrond had some warning, then, and it was not a complete surprise when Elros started to cry, sobs emerging from his throat loud and broken. Elrond could not remember ever having heard Elros make such a noise. It made his eyes sting to hear it, and it was not long before he was sobbing along with him. He wept because he was tired and confused, and because he wanted Mother and their attendants to come back and wipe his tears away and make him feel better again. He wept because he knew that was not going to happen, ever again.

Instead, the strange Elf opened his arms, leaned in, and drew them into an embrace. Elrond and Elros continued to cry, but they did not pull away. Elrond so longed for an embrace that he would accept it from this person who was clearly one of the enemies they had been told to hide from. He found his face resting against the stranger's shoulder, and he let his tears spill down onto it. "I won't let anyone harm you," the stranger said.

Elrond did not believe him, but he was comforted by the words and their soft tone. What he'd given them was an impossible promise. No one person could ensure that another would not be hurt, no matter how much they wished to make those words a reality. If that could truly be done, Elrond would have done it so many times over. He would have made sure no one he loved was ever hurt, and he would have started with everyone who had been with him on that day.


	3. Blue Mountains

The first word Elrond had said upon seeing Maglor had been "Father", and Elros had so quickly corrected him. They had both been mistaken, yet they had both been right. Looking back on that fraught moment, Elrond could recall his terror perfectly. Time had not dimmed the memory. He had believed the "Red Monster" was going to cut them to pieces. He did not doubt that if Maglor had not intervened, Maedhros would have done exactly that. A madness had beset Maedhros that day. Elrond could better comprehend the reasons for his actions now, although he would never condone them. No motive could excuse such deeds. 

Now, millennia later, he no longer felt a scrap of the fear that had once overwhelmed him. While his memory of the monster was preserved, so too were other memories of Maedhros. Maedhros had caught him up in his arms and carried him up on his shoulders so he could see farther through the trees. Maedhros had taught him the best way to swing a sword. He had shown him how to track prey by the careful examination of earth and foliage. The frightening face of the Red Monster was overlaid with the fair face of Maedhros seated at a campfire, narrowing his eyes in a smile as he told a story of adventuring as a child in Aman.

Revisiting his first encounter with Maglor and Maedhros, Elrond struggled to disentangle his emotions. He was angry at what had been done to his family. It was an affront that two children had been made to sorrow and suffer so, and that his mother had been chased and harried. Yet his anger had no rancor in it. How could he hate that unexpected Elf who had thrown himself in front of a sword to save him? Maglor had looked upon him with such gentleness, and had embraced him when he was weeping. As they'd knelt together in the cave, Maglor had wept along with him and Elros, though his sobs had been fainter and almost soundless. Emotions eluded classification, they contradicted each other. Elrond could love Maglor, though Maglor had taken part in slaying the attendants he had also loved. 

Despite their embrace in the cave, Elrond and Elros had been slow to trust Maglor. Maglor took Elrond and Elros into his household, but he had grown aloof after his initial outpouring of emotion in the cave. He must have been ashamed of himself, with good reason. Elrond and his brother had been well-fed and well-housed, but they had been treated with almost perfunctory hospitality. It had taken time for a deeper appreciation to spring up between them and their new host. Host—not a term everyone would have agreed on. Maglor could have been called captor, kidnapper. Those labels were not incorrect, but once Elrond had taken everything into account, he preferred to call Maglor Father. Not his only father, but a father nonetheless. That was Elrond's choice, and he would not let others make it for him.

Because Maglor was more father than captor to him, Elrond was seeking him. It would not be long before he left Middle-earth. After his ship had departed, there would be no returning for him. If Maglor remained here, he would be left alone. Eventually, most other Elves would depart, and Maglor would begin to fade. The more Elrond had considered that outcome, the more uneasy he had become. It had made him restless.  
Some might have thought he'd lost his reason to consider bringing one of the Sons of Fëanor back to Valinor. That might have been an impossible task, but what kind of son would he himself be if he did not try to talk to his father? It was unlikely Maglor would be permitted to depart, but there was a slim chance that an exception could be made. Exceptions had been made before. Had not Maglor wandered and suffered for many years? He had surely proven his remorse beyond any doubt. Elrond would not let the matter lie. If he did not make an attempt, how could he feel at peace with himself?

Elrond had begun his solitary quest in Rivendell, riding south. He had followed the course of the Bruinen down to the ruin of Lond Daer. The remains of the once bustling harbor were silent and tranquil, overgrown with windswept trees, the old stone dotted with gold and violet flowers. From there, Elrond had gone north. He had deemed it less likely he would find Maglor in Gondor or farther south, but as he'd ridden up along the coast, he had neither seen nor heard any signs of the last Fëanorian. In the first years of the Second Age, there had been various rumors concerning Maglor's travels, but no one told such stories any more. There were few who believed he lived. Yet those few did number among the wise, and Elrond was more likely to trust their opinions than the words of those who knew so much less about the matter.

He had ridden for many long, lonely days without encountering any tangible proof of Maglor's existence. Then, by the light of the hunters' fire, he was shocked into stillness by the unexpected outpouring of Maglor's song. He had not heard that singing in centuries. He had almost forgotten how beautiful it was. He had remembered the fact, but not the feeling, of listening to Maglor's voice. The Men would not have realized it, as they knew no Elvish languages, but Maglor had not been singing any particular song. It had been a melody without words: keening and mournful and wandering, music grown feral in the wilderness.

Once Elrond left the pair of hunters to their own devices and their mortal lives, he returned to the white horse that waited for him in the dark. Glorfindel had offered him the assistance of Asfaloth, and he had accepted it. There were other horses in Rivendell, but Elrond recognized the offer for what it was: a sign of support and love, showing that Glorfindel would be beside him in spirit, if not in body. Glorfindel had known Maglor. He had lived in and left Valinor with the other Noldor. He must have understood, better than many others, what Elrond felt. Elrond mounted quickly. Asfaloth, sensing his intent, started forward in the direction from which the song had come: farther north. He rode all night, but he did not hear the music again.

The morning dawned clear. The cool of the northern lands swept southward in a biting breeze. Elrond rode within sight of the sea, Asfaloth's footsteps louder than usual as his hooves struck the stony incline that descended toward the water, until it faded into the pebbles that formed the gray shore. At the sight of the waves, Elrond's chest tightened. Elrond had kept to the most sparsely inhabited stretches of coastal land throughout his journey. This was far from the first time he had found himself faced with a seascape, but each time he was, it struck him anew and stayed his step.

The sea-longing had been upon him for some time now, and it intensified whenever he glimpsed the undulating water stretching out to the horizon. Though ever present, it rose and fell like waves. Maglor must have felt a sea-longing too, with no way to ease it. More than that, he must feel the pull of the Silmaril and of the Oath he had once sworn. Elrond would never feel the weight of all the forces that had a claim on his father's fëa, but he could try. Greater understanding was always to be desired, even if it came with greater pain.

Maglor had never tried to make him swear the Oath. He had avoided speaking of it, protecting the children in his care from it. Elrond was glad of that. He and his brother were unlikely to have sworn it, but it was another sign Maglor had given of how much he had loved them. He had spared them his own suffering whenever he could. He had not always succeeded, but each effort he had taken on their part remained in Elrond's heart, like another jewel he had been given and kept close.

As he rode along the shore with no companion but Asfaloth, the Sun rose through the sky, lighting the world. Arien's light gleamed on the foam of the waves, echoing the paleness of Asfaloth's smooth mane. These lands had changed much since his youth—the topography itself was greatly altered—but he frequently caught sight of a familiar hill or rock formation or ancient tree. The Blue Mountains rose to the east, and their silhouettes reminded him of Gil-Galad. He, too, had stood tall and strong, and he had often ridden across these very lands. Elrond smiled sadly, and his gaze upon the mountains was fond. He did not know when he would see his dear friend again. The same was true of too many dear friends. 

He had lost too many people, some irrevocably, yet Maglor was alive. He was reachable, if distant. There was love between the two of them, and he would not abandon a love.

Elrond ate little as he traveled and slept less. When he rested, it was more for Asfaloth's sake than his own. He had ridden through the night after hearing the song, and at midday, he searched for a shady and comfortable patch of land where Asfaloth could rest. While the horse napped, Elrond lay down nearby and let himself drowse, half-awake and half in reverie. 

He dreamed of the sea, as he so often did. In his dream, he gazed out at the horizon. He saw a white bird, flying westward, ever farther away from him, until it dwindled to a bright spot in the distance. There, still shining brightly, it took on the appearance of a star. Elrond gave a start and sat up. Unexpectedly, he sensed that he was not alone. Yet by all appearances, he was alone in truth, aside from Asfaloth, who was napping quietly nearby.

Elrond rose to his feet. When he walked to one the edge of the clearing he had chosen for Asfaloth, he could see the blue-gray expanse of the sea. No one could be spied upon the shore. When Elrond walked in the opposite direction, he found himself in the midst of low scrub trees, huddling among small, scattered boulders. There was no one visible among the trees, either. In the wilds of Forlindon, Elrond felt more isolated than he had in a long time, far from Rivendell and his many companions there. 

There would have been advantages to bringing others with him. They could have covered more ground, and one of their party could have scouted or kept watch while the others rested, so they would not have missed any signs of their quarry. Erestor, in all his loyalty, had offered to accompany Elrond. As much as Elrond enjoyed his company, he had refused. This hunt was not so much a matter of finding Maglor as Maglor allowing himself to be found. 

As one of the Noldor who had come to Middle-earth from Valinor, Maglor's sight and hearing were keener; his endurance and power were greater; his stride was swifter. There were few Elves in Middle-earth who could have tracked him. Maglor, who had deliberately isolated himself, was unlikely to relent and reveal himself to someone he did not know well. This was a personal, private matter. A companion would ultimately have been more hindrance than help.

As that thought passed through Elrond's mind, the singing began again, as wordless and plaintive as it had been before. Elrond started and scanned his surroundings, but the song was as distant as it had been last night. "Father—" 

He started forward, striding among the scrub trees, although he was unlikely to catch up to Maglor that way. He froze when he caught sight of a scrap of warm color in this cool, gray and green place. Someone had left a red flower on this gray stone. Next to it lay a thin, dark green plant with thinner white flowers. Accompanying them was a lean, dark root which had been carefully wiped clean, and a handful of purple-tipped leaves. There were more, too: yellow flowers and white leaves. Elrond stared down at the array in wonder. This collection had been gathered recently and left here with intent. Not only were the flowers unwilted, but such offerings would not remain here long once an ocean breeze swept through. 

Elrond knelt, and tears stung his eyes. He recognized these plants. They were native to Middle-earth. Common and humble, some might say, but each one of them had healing properties, however minor. He had learned their names and nature when he was very young.


	4. Bitter Herbs

Elrond dreamed every night that Mother and Father returned for him. Every night, they took him away from the mystifying Noldor who had taken him and Elros into their care. In his dreams, Mother and Father carried him home again. They told him he would never have to leave. They would be together forever. 

His dreams, as soft and beautiful as they were, did not fail to wake him up. Like any Elf, he slept lightly, with his eyes half-open, so he returned smoothly to a waking state. Once he woke, he was troubled by how different the real world was from his sweet dream, and how small and alone he felt. He would sit up in bed and watch the stars through the window, until the black sky paled into gray and the rest of the world woke and joined him. Elros often sat up with him when he couldn't sleep, and they would sit side by side, watching the sun rise.

In the waking world, there was no sign of either of his parents. Elrond was too young to understand that the forces that kept his parents from him were neither ordinary nor easily cast aside. His parents had become figures of legend, but he did not know what that meant or why it had to be so. He wanted to feel his mother's arms around him, or his father's fingers running through his hair. He would feel better, then. He would be safe. He wasn't safe here, and he couldn't sleep easy.

On one dark, early morning, Elrond was awakened—not by his dreams—by the sound of singing. It was such a beautiful sound that it banished his wistful dreams. For several minutes he remained motionless. He had heard music many times before—what Elf had not?—but never a song so striking and haunting as this one. It had words, but Elrond was too far from the singer to make them out. Once he had regained enough reason to realize that he might be able to hear better if he were closer, he glanced at Elros. His brother was still sleeping beside him, eyes half-open, though his mind was elsewhere. Elros did not sleep heavily, but of the two of them, he was less likely to be woken by a noise. 

Not wanting to wake Elros, Elrond carefully slid out of bed. Something about the early morning atmosphere made this feel like another dream, so it was in a dreamlike haze that he walked silently across the room, out into the hall, then downstairs and outside. This building did not precisely belong to the Noldor who were living here. The structures on these grounds were half in ruins, having taken damage from some past attack. They must have been abandoned, and the Noldor had taken up residence. Elrond did not know what had happened to the Elves that had lived here before. He did know that these grounds were watched. He and Elros were not made to feel like prisoners. They could wander the grounds freely, but Elrond was sure that if he tried to creep away into the wilderness and escape, he would be intercepted and brought back.

This certainty did not stop him from moving toward the music. He was caught up in its spell. It was that kind of music; it carried you along. Hearing it, you felt you had to do something. It made you want to run or dance or laugh or weep. Elrond hurried through the grass, the dew cool against his bare feet. He did not stop until he was close to the source of the music. He crouched behind a bush, nothing but a wall of branches and leaves separating him from the singer, and he listened. The song was a story, and as it unfolded, he heard a tale of a journey from Aman to Middle-earth: of dark, rough seas and white ships stained with blood. It was frightening, but entrancing. His eyes grew wider, and he curled up into a smaller shape, trying to hide himself among the leaves so that he would never be noticed and the song would never stop.

Yet the song did stop. A sudden silence filled the world, and Elrond felt the ache that was the absence of music. He must have made too much noise among the leaves. A tall form rose above the bushes. He looked up, his gaze meeting that of Maglor. Maglor's eyes were so bright. Especially in the dark, they shone with a piercing light that Elrond did not want to look away from. They said that the Elves who came from Aman had the light of the Trees in their eyes, and Elrond did not doubt it when Maglor looked at him.

"What are you doing down there?" Maglor asked. Elrond had been afraid of being scolded for sneaking outside, but there was no disapproval in Maglor's tone. It was gently curious.

"I was only listening, my lord." He spoke with careful politeness. He was still afraid of Maglor, although Maglor was not nearly as frightening as Maedhros. "I am sorry if I disturbed you."

Maglor studied him carefully, and Elrond realized why he when Maglor spoke again. "Elrond," he said.

Elrond nodded. Many Elves found it difficult to tell him apart from Elros, but Maglor had managed it. 

"There is no need to apologize to me. I had not realized I had an audience. Did you enjoy that?"

Elrond nodded again.

"I see." Maglor smiled. "If you'd like to hear more singing, I can sing you another song."

"Not that one?"

"No, not tonight. I find myself in a different mood now. Come and sit."

Maglor had been seated in a small grove which contained a semi-circle of pretty carved stone seats. They had been arranged so that someone could stand in front of them and perform for whoever occupied the seats. Elrond eagerly installed himself on a seat. While the song Maglor had been singing before had been exciting and entrancing, Elrond was glad when Maglor sang a much more cheerful song about a stag dashing through the woodland, outsmarting all the hunters. He had never heard it before. It was a simple song, but the way Maglor sang it, it didn't sound childish. Elrond felt like he was right there, running alongside the stag through the green forests.

When Maglor was done and the last note fell away, Elrond clasped his hands together. "Thank you, my lord."

"You need not call me that. Makalaurë would be fine. Or Maglor, if you prefer. They call me that here."

Elrond nodded as he mused on the soft-sounding Quenya name and its Sindarin counterpart. He was not sure if he could call him by his name instead of a title, but Elrond did not argue. He nodded, although he did not say one of the names. "Do you play instruments, too?"

"I do play a number of them, but I did not bring any out here with me. I was singing for myself alone—I must have been singing too loudly if I woke you."

"I was already awake," said Elrond quickly.

This statement must not have reassured Maglor, because he frowned. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

"Not very much," said Elrond quickly. He didn't want to complain. 

"Not very much." Maglor looked pensive, then added, "if you are ever unable to sleep, you can come to see me. I'll keep you company. And your brother too, if he'd like."

Elrond considered this offer, but he didn't know if he could disturb Maglor for the sake of such a small thing as trouble sleeping. "What if you're sleeping?"

"Oh, that doesn't matter," said Maglor, shaking his head. "Whenever you need me, you can come to find me, if you wish. We can pass the time together." 

His wariness of Maglor warred with his curiosity and his desire for more songs. "Could—you teach me to play instruments?"

Maglor brightened. "Of course. If you like, I'll teach you whatever you like, if it is within my power. Can you play any already?"

"I learned to play the harp and flute, but I don't play them as well as—" Elrond broke off before pronouncing the word _Mother_. 

Maglor averted his gaze, his brightness dimming. His eyes focused on the dark blades of grass underfoot. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, because the tone of his voice had not changed when he asked, "What else do you like to do, Elrond? Besides playing music and walking through the woods at night?"

Elrond, still unsure of Maglor, considered before answering. He preferred to be careful with his words when he did not know someone well. "A lot of things. I like to sing. I like to run and dance. I like reading and exploring. I like foraging and herbcraft."

"Herbcraft? Ah, I used to forage and gather herbs often in Aman. We should do that together sometime. Would you like that?"

Elrond nodded. Although he was still intimidated by Maglor, it was hard to refuse that offer. It did sound like something he'd like to do. 

"I want you and your brother to ask me for anything you need," said Maglor. "You don't need to worry that I'll be displeased. I want you to feel safe here, with us. I know why that might be difficult for you."

His expression was sad again. Hopeful, but sad, as if he was hoping for something he did not believe he'd ever have. Elrond didn't like to see it, as he didn't like to see Elros sad, or anyone he cared about. Did he care about Maglor, then? He envisioned Maglor, with his arm upraised before a blade, protecting them from harm without any thought of his own safety. His expression remaining soft as Elros cut his hand open. The blood running down his fingers. "Will you sing me the other song again sometime?" Elrond asked. "The first one."

"It's not a glad song," said Maglor.

Elrond had listened to it long enough to know that, so he nodded. "Did you write it?"

"Yes, I did."

"I'd like to hear it again."

"I will sing it for you someday, then, as you have asked it of me. But on one condition—that you will go out foraging with me."

Maglor seemed so kind that Elrond wished they could have met in some other way. That there did not need to be any sorrow and fear lying between them. "I will," he said. He was about to say _my lord_ again, but he remembered their earlier exchange, and instead he said experimentally, "Makalaurë." He was not sure if he preferred the Quenya or the Sindarin name.

"I am glad of it," said Maglor. "But now, we must both try to rest. For you must be tired. I know that I am. Do you agree?"

"I am tired." Elrond couldn't deny it. He went willingly as Maglor led him back to his room. Maglor stopped at the threshold and vanished into the shadows. 

Elrond's eyes were already half-closing as he climbed into bed. He took his place beside Elros, and he realized Elros was awake when his brother asked, "Where were you?"

"I went outside."

"You shouldn't go outside without me." The statement was actually a question. Elrond could tell that his brother was worried about him.

"It's all right. The Noldo was there."

"Him." Elros sniffed. Elrond thought he might be about to express his doubts about Maglor, as he had before, but instead he said, "At least someone was there to look after you." A teasing note had crept into his tone, and Elrond knew he wasn't angry. 

"Someone was there to look after me," he agreed. Maglor was someone who would look after him. With this settled, Elros curled up beside him to return to sleep, and it wasn't long before Elrond fell back into sleep, too.

After their nighttime meeting, Maglor became more sociable, speaking to Elrond and Elros interestedly at meals, asking about their interests and opinions, and inviting them to walk with him—always leaving them with the option to refuse his company. He would sing for them, when they asked him to. Elros was no different from Elrond in his excitement to hear Maglor singing and his ability to listen to him sing for hours. As a game, they would assign him various song topics and listen in wonder as he conjured new compositions on the spot. Each song was so distinct and the words so charming that they thought there must be a kind of magic to it.

When Maglor suggested that they spend the day exploring in the woods and bring provisions for a picnic, they didn't hesitate to agree to the idea. It would be the first time they had gone a significant distance from the grounds since arriving there. Elrond missed adventuring through the wilds. In uncertain moments, Elrond felt disloyal for enjoying himself after what had happened to their mother and their household, but Maglor and his attendants were consistently kind and considerate. They had begun to devise new entertainments and diversions, Maglor's people following his lead and warming to Elrond and Elros. Maglor seemed as excited by every new exploit as Elrond and his brother were.

Maedhros made one of his appearances that day. The weather was clear, and the light gleamed warmly on his distinctive red hair as he walked at his brother's side. Elrond did not see him often, and he suspected Maedhros was avoiding him and Elros, residing somewhere nearby, out of their sight. Maedhros had been speaking to Maglor about their planned outing, but as they approached the edge of the forest, he halted and gave every sign that he would be staying behind.

Maglor was not content to let it be so. "Come along, Nelyo," he said brightly, reaching out to take his brother's hand and pull at it to guide him, as if they were both children.

"Kano, I don't know—"

"We'll need your tracking skills. And you can protect us."

"You can protect yourself well enough. I have seen it."

With a soft sigh, Maglor dropped his brother's hand, but continued to beckon to him. 

Maedhros looked at the woods, then at Maglor, but he did not move, as if rooted where he stood. "Well, what about the children?" he asked.

"Elrond, Elros, what do you think?" Maglor asked. "Can my brother come with us?"

Elrond looked at Elros, who wore a dubious expression. Both of them remembered the Red Monster too well. Maedhros was frightening, but he had not been a monster since the day they had met him in the cave. He watched them mutely, with his head slightly lowered, awaiting and accepting their judgment. Finally, Elros shrugged, and Elrond, sensing the choice had been left to him, said, "If he would like to come." He was curious about the tall Elf, who was usually quiet in their presence. It wouldn't be frightening to have him near so long as Maglor was with them to protect them.

Maedhros inclined his head respectfully, as if Elrond were his senior. "By your leave, then," he said.

Did Maedhros feel sorry for what he had done? It was hard to imagine this strong Elf who towered over them feeling sad. His expression was not sorrowful, but serious. Maglor reached out his hands again, this time offering one to Elrond and one to Elros. They each took one, and they let him lead them into the wood. Maedhros followed a few paces behind. His footsteps were so light, they made no sound.

These woods were unfamiliar to Elrond, but they were not so far away from where he had been born that the plants growing here were unknown to him. He had already learned the names of many of them, and those he did not know, he was determined to learn. As the day progressed, they wandered freely through the trees. Maglor did not direct their wandering, but let Elrond and Elros choose their own paths. 

Only twice did Elrond have reason to suspect that these were anything but safe lands to wander in. Twice, Maedhros suddenly tensed and disappeared into the trees without a word. When he reappeared, his expression had not changed, but there was a faint glow around him, which reminded Elrond of the Red Monster. He did not ask where Maedhros had gone, but it made him nervous. The second time it happened, he hid his hands under his cloak and squeezed them together.

He did not have time to worry long, for Maglor was soon at his side. "Do you think you could tell me more about the plants that grow here? I was well-versed in all the herbs and flowers of Aman, but there are so many growing here that do not grow there. Since I arrived, I have not had the time to practice herbcraft that I would like—so I think you may know more than me."

Elrond nodded, pleased by the thought that he could be the one to instruct an older Elf. He was proud of his knowledge. His hands left the safety of his cloak as he turned to point at a familiar herb nearby. Its stem was dark and wispy, splitting into thin tendrils, and it had put out a fine spray of narrow white blossoms. "That's called heartsease. Does it grow in Aman?" He had heard so many tales of Valinor, but it was so very far away. He hoped he would be able to see it someday. Maglor talked about it sometimes as if it were a place anyone could visit, but it was not.

"No, that one I have seen here before, but I never saw it growing in Aman. What else do you know of it?"

"They say that it can slow your bleeding, if you're hurt. You put it on your wound. But it tastes very, very bad. It's one of the most bitter tasting plants there is anywhere."

"Have you ever tried tasting it?"

"Well—once. I wouldn't try it again." Elrond grimaced at the memory.

Maglor laughed. "If it is that bitter, I cannot blame you for that. You were brave to try it even once. And what of that one?" Maglor pointed to another plant growing nearby, this one low to the earth, nestled by the roots of a tree. Elrond nodded again, already starting to forget his nervousness and uncertainty regarding Maedhros. Maglor had a way of making him feel at ease, making him feel heard. As they walked through the wood, he told Maglor the names of all the plants that he remembered. The one growing among the tree roots was called redbalm, named for the reddish or purplish tips of its leaves. It was said to cure homesickness or heartsickness, if an herb could truly cure such a deep malady.

"You're supposed to boil it in water, but I don't know if it works," said Elrond. "I've never tried it."

Maglor leaned down to pick a few leaves of redbalm, turning them over in his hands, touching his fingertips to their bright tips. "And is this one said to be bitter, too?" he asked.

"Yes, it doesn't taste good at all."

"I thought as much," said Maglor, a remark Elrond didn't understand at the time. He had assumed Maglor meant that good medicines usually tasted bad. Maglor may have meant that happiness was hard won, that bitterness was boundless, and that his own heart was full of it. Maglor would not have said that to a child. Elrond wished he could give his father something that would both taste sweet and ease his pain. He wished he could go back to that day in the wood when they searched for herbs and tell him he understood. Even if he were the child who had lost his family, and Maglor was the adult who had taken part in his loss, he wished he could give him more comfort. 

Elrond had to take comfort in the fact that Maglor must have taken no small measure of joy in having children to care for and raise. How his bright eyes had shone all the brighter as Elrond had pointed out each new herb. Yet how bitter must it have been for him to look at those children and remember them crying on the floor of a sea-cave, hurt and afraid.


	5. Seeing Stone

There was never any question that Maglor was a poet. Only a poet would leave Elrond a message in the language of herbs. Elrond studied the cuttings that had been left for him on the stone by the sea. Each one was of a type of plant said to cure physical or mental maladies, some of them more effective than others. There he found the familiar heartsease and redbalm he had showed to Maglor in the woods. All of these cuttings were plants Elrond had taught Maglor the common name of, so there was no question in his mind as to who had left them here for him. He was not sure how Maglor had come so near and departed again without betraying his presence, yet he was sure that these small things had been left as a message for him. There was no doubt, now, that Maglor knew of his presence and his intent. 

Carefully and dutifully, before the wind could take them away, Elrond gathered up the plants that had been left behind. He tucked them into a carrying pouch at his belt, before turning to search the area for other signs of his father. "I doubt you can hear me now, but I would speak to you, if I could. I wish you would let me come to you."

There was no answer. He had expected no answer. There were reasons Maglor would choose to elude him, and they were impossibly complex. Time and history had tied knots around them both. Elrond returned to Asfaloth, who was already awake and grazing. The horse glanced at him questioningly as he approached. Elrond reached out and patted Asfaloth's shoulder, glad of the companionship. "It's time for us to go, if you're willing."

Asfaloth inclined his head and gave a soft snort of comprehension. There was no need for them to stay in this place. They had rested; their quarry had moved on. They continued to travel north, along the shoreline. Maglor would not venture too far inland. That limited the search. However, the coastlands, between the cities, could be wild and difficult, full of places to hide.

The weather grew colder as they progressed, and the shoreline sharper. There were more rocks, and sometimes sheer cliffs. There was a shiver of snow in the air. Elrond saw tracks that indicated Men had passed by recently, but he continued to avoid the region's inhabitants. He wondered if the Men living here also had heard Maglor's singing throughout the years and told stories about it from generation to generation.

Elrond heard the singing again—not every night, but every few nights, rising in the distance, far enough away that he could not catch up to the singer quickly. It was the most beautiful, sad, wordless song. The first few times he heard it, Elrond rode out in search of the song, but after none of his attempts were successful, he changed his tactic. He could not reach Maglor that way.

Instead, he simply sat and listened, letting the sound wash over him, as if it was given to him, a gift to be taken and enjoyed. As he was enveloped by music, he gazed at the stars. The brightest of them seemed to gaze back at him. Here were both his fathers, then. The distant song and the distant star. Many Elves had unusual parentage, but Elrond would have preferred that he was not among those whose unusual parentage meant that their parents were gone. He had learned so many lessons about parting. Though he had learned much, he had sorrowed much in learning.

Soon, he would see his mother and his wife again. He might see his father Eärendil, whenever he should alight in Valinor to see Elwing. It had been so long since he had spoken to his parents that the idea of a reunion with them was like a dream to him. They must remember him as a child, and he remembered them as parents, having never had the chance to grow into adulthood with them and see them as individuals outside of parenthood. He was glad his children had grown into adulthood with him, although that reminded him that he would soon be leaving Arwen behind. He would never see her again. She would go where Men went, wherever that was—like his brother Elros, so long ago.

"I wonder what you would say, to see me here," Elrond said, speaking to Elros in his absence. "I think you would have come with me, to see him again. You grew to love him, too."

He sought the faces of his loved ones among the stars, drawing lines from light to light. Arwen, Elros. The mortality of Men was a gift. He accepted the choices they had made. Yet he missed Elros, and would miss Arwen dearly. He would miss Maglor, if he could not through some unknown and unlikely means devise a scheme by which Maglor might come with him to Valinor. If he could not, Maglor would be left here alone. That might be what he wished, but the thought was sharp and sad. Elrond did not wish to think of Father alone. He had done much harm, but he had done good. Elrond would not be living now if Maglor had not intervened on behalf of him and his brother—and, more than that, if he had not spent so many years after that caring for and protecting them.

The light of the stars absorbed Elrond's attention. He had created constellations for Elros and Arwen, so he might be able to see their bright faces in Valinor, too—if not, he would invent new constellations for them there. He selected another arrangement of stars for Maglor. The way he stood in the sky, he seemed to have drawn his twin swords. When Elrond was about to give himself up completely to memory and dreaming, Asfaloth snorted, the earthly sound of the horse bringing him back to the present. 

"Yes," said Elrond, as if Asfaloth had spoken, "we should rest a little now." Maglor's song was beginning to fade away. It was a good time to sleep and restore his energy.

Both Elf and horse needed no more than short periods of rest, and by the time dawn began to redden the East, they were moving again. The wind grew more bitter by the day. Elrond was undeterred. He did not intend to travel up into the Northern Waste, and his clothing was warm enough for his intentions and the summer months. As Maglor kept singing, and the singing never seemed to draw nearer, he suspected he was being led. He trusted Maglor, and he followed him. His father, as oddly as he might behave at times, would never lead him into harm.

As the Sun climbed over the Blue Mountains, it lit the sea. As he scanned the horizon, gaze ever drawn westward, Elrond saw a dark shape on the water, so broad and solid that it had to be land. Himring. That meant that the place where he was standing had once been Maglor's Gap, or very near it. He was not close enough to Himring to see any ruins or other signs of past inhabitants, but he felt a great sadness and a longing for the land that had been broken by war. Maglor and his brothers had once risked their lives to protect the Elves of Middle-earth. Stationed here, they had watched ceaselessly for the forces of the Great Enemy, and their efforts had been rewarded with sorrow and pain. Unlike their Great Enemy, they had done both good and evil. 

There was no question of Elrond sailing out to Himring to see what remained of the deserted fortress there. Maglor would not have gone there. The memories would likely have been too painful for him. Yet he imagined that Maglor must have often stood here, or very nearby, and gazed out at the island that could just be glimpsed with Elven eyes. Elrond did not linger there long. The weight of the past lay too heavily on him, though the most dread events that had taken place here had transpired before his birth.

From here, he could no longer go directly northward. The coastline turned west, and so, too, did Elrond. He and Asfaloth passed through the lowland corridor to the north of the Blue Mountains, keeping the peaks always in sight. In these high, cold lands, the Lossoth kept watch, but as a lone Elven rider, Elrond did not find them much more difficult to avoid than other Men.

The chill waters of the Icebay of Forochel did not represent Elrond's idea of an idyllic destination. Though it was summer, Elrond was greeted to these lands by bands of snow and icy ridges. Odd how Morgoth's ancient touch had not yet completely faded. His cold still lay upon these lands, though his servant Sauron had fallen. Elrond supposed this cold would linger until the end of days, the last manifestation in Middle-earth of Morgoth's once seemingly limitless power. If not for Morgoth's works, Elrond would not be pursuing Maglor now through the cold and solitude. 

Elrond removed the thought from his mind before it could take root. Best not to think of those old adversaries any more than was necessary. Their time had passed. They had already devoured too much of his time and thoughts. This cold was a lingering remnant of dark power, but it was not malicious or supernatural in itself. Like so many other things in this Age, it was slowly fading. It would not trouble him.

Now that Elrond and Maglor had established between themselves without words that Elrond was following Maglor, and that Maglor knew it, the tenor of his journey had changed. It was no longer a quest as much as a conversation. Maglor had led him to this cold and sparsely inhabited place, when he might have easily led him south again. What was Maglor trying to tell him? Elrond pondered as Asfaloth carried him over the icy, rocky landscape. He watched for signs, tracing the silhouettes of the rocks with his gaze.

Was this cold place representative of Maglor himself and his inner world? Quiet, isolated, cold? Maglor had been wandering for so long, presumably with no companion. He must have been out of practice in conversation. The trouble with talking to poets was that sometimes they tried to say a number of things at once, in very few words—or, in this case, no words at all. Elrond was fortunate, in that he had had a long lifetime in which to contemplate both poetry and Maglor. He was also fortunate in that Asfaloth was so nimble-footed and smooth in his movements, allowing him to contemplate the landscape, searching for scraps of meaning. When a beam of sunlight slipped between clouds and struck an oddly bright spot among the rocks on the backshore, he noticed immediately.

The gleaming was not the kind of light that might be reflected from ice or local stone. Next to it, stones had been piled in a small cairn, marking the place as significant. Elrond was curious enough to guide Asfaloth in that direction. Once he saw what lay among the rocks, he froze as if the sea breeze's chill had proved too much for him. There, nesting like the egg of an unearthly shore-bird, lay a perfect sphere of dark crystal.

Elrond stared at it for several minutes without blinking. How could this be? One of the palantíri. He slipped off of Asfaloth's back. He knelt, taking the object carefully in his hands. It was perfectly round, perfectly smooth, nothing less than miraculous. It was almost impossible to believe that this flawless, round crystal was entirely of Elven make. As he held it, its slight warmth sank into his palms. Even in this cold place, it was warm. That was its maker's doing. This was a wonder, its creation beyond the understanding even of the Enemy, although the Enemy had twisted the palantíri to his own ends. Now his evil influence was broken, and the stone was only what its creator had intended.

The placement of the palantír here along his route was too perfect. Maglor must have left it for him, as he had left the herbs. Had Maglor carried one of these with him all this time? It was not unthinkable, as Maglor's father had created them. However, in all the battles and trials Maglor had weathered, Elrond did not think he had retained one. Such a thing had never been spoken of, although he was the first to admit that recorded knowledge of the stones' number and fate was not complete. Looking out at the bay, he remembered the tale of the palantíri that had been lost in its frigid waters—yet another sad story. Could it be one of those?

Gazing down at the palantír, Elrond saw a light within, in the midst of its darkness. If Maglor, who always wandered the coastline, had found one of the seeing stones washed up on the shore or even out in the water, then—there was no way of telling how long he had had it. All throughout the War of the Ring, unthought of by almost everyone, there had been Maglor with a palantír in his possession. At any time, he could have used it. Of course, he would never have used it. Maglor had cut himself off from all other Elves, from all communication. 

Could this be the Stone of Annúminas? It had been lost in the waters here, and it was small enough to carry, so it well could be. "Arvedui," he said aloud. "Was this yours?" He tightened his grasp on it as he thought of all the Kings of Men who had been and would be. He searched his surroundings hopefully—not for the first time—but no one was within view, save himself and Asfaloth. 

Nevertheless, he spoke again, raising his voice. "Should I take this back with me?" The Fëanorians had been told they were not allowed to return, but the palantíri could go back, and it was a kind of return. The stones would always be tied to the Fëanorians. So was Elrond, although the Valar would not have considered him one of them. He did not share their blood or their curse. "Your father's stone. I will take it with me, if that is why you left it."

He had no way of knowing if Maglor could hear him, but he added, in a voice that was no quieter, "I would rather bring you." If this was what Maglor asked of him, he would do it. Maglor had done so much for him. There was little he would not do for him. Why else would he be here in this desolate cold?


	6. Parting Ways

"Can you tell me the name of that one?" Elrond pointed up at the dark sky before glancing hopefully at Maglor.

"You should know it well enough."

"I want you to tell me."

"All right." Maglor smiled up at the stars, his face gleaming in the moonlight as he traced the lines of the constellation Elrond had indicated with a fingertip. "That is the Hare. She is running from the Fox, who is right behind her."

"Will he ever catch her?" Elrond lay on his back in the clearing, the grass soft against his skin, the ground firm beneath his back. He glanced over at Maglor, who was lying beside him. His father was silvered by the starlight, Maglor's skin answering the stars with its own faint, pale glow.

Maglor shook his head, his hair shifting in the grass. "No, never, she's much too fast and wily for that."

"But isn't the Fox the most wily?"

"Well—yes, and no. The Fox must be wily enough to catch his prey and elude his predators, but the Hare is clever in the ways of escaping the Fox. There are many kinds of wisdom, for many purposes."

"What kind do you have?"

"Me?" Maglor pointed to himself, eyebrows rising. "You think _me_ wise?"

"Of course I do, Father!" When had he first called him Father? It had come to feel so natural.

Maglor smiled, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. "Hm, where do you get these ideas? I have some skill with a harp, and I can sing, but those things do not not wisdom bring."

Although he was no longer as small as he had been when he'd met Maglor, he never would have thought of objecting to Maglor ruffling his hair. He hadn't tired of hearing his stories, or of asking him any question that came into his head. Maglor had never refused to answer one of his questions, though he did not hesitate to admit ignorance when he did not know an answer. "It must take wisdom to make so many songs and sing them so well. And you know all the stories about everything—or else you wrote them yourself."

"Song is not the same as wisdom."

"I wouldn't say so." Maedhros' low voice sounded nearby, and when he and Elros emerged from the trees, Elrond stood to greet them. They had been hunting and foraging, and their laden packs showed that they had been successful. "I have often thought you were the wisest of us," Maedhros said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "I suspect you might think so yourself, when we misbehave."

"I have never claimed such a thing," Maglor countered, but he smiled at his brother even as he disagreed with him.

"Don't argue," Elros laughed, interrupting them. "We found the best berries," he added excitedly, moving on to a subject he deemed more urgent. "I've never had them before, but Father said they were good, and they are."

The brothers' status had altered as years had passed. Servitors and resources had fallen away. Although they were not without allies, Maglor and Maedhros had become a community unto themselves, with Elrond and Elros in tow. In his youth, Elrond had not questioned the changes or completely understood them, but times must have been difficult for them. Many lost faith in them. Others fell to the servants of the Great Enemy, who were a present danger, although Maglor and Maedhros tried to protect them from this knowledge. 

Now the four of them were a family, and the forest was their home. There were times they found a ruin or abandoned structure to house them, but when they had no shelter, they lived under the leaves and stars, like the Elves who had first awakened in the world. Elrond had spent years running free in the woods, and he had found a kind of happiness here with his fathers.

"Oh, I want to try them." Elrond hurried over toward the promised berries. "Let me see."

"I've only seen them growing in Aman before," said Maedhros. "Someone must have brought them here. They've escaped cultivation and grown wild."

Elrond excitedly grabbed a handful of the berries Elros offered him and blinked at the tartness as they burst between his teeth. That initial bite was followed by a rush of sweetness. His eyes widened, then he laughed again. Maglor laughed with him, probably inspired by the look on his face, and within a few minutes, they all had mouths reddened by berries. They rested in the soft grass of the clearing, looking up at the stars. Elrond thought to himself, I'm happy here. _I wish we could stay here. I wish we didn't have to keep traveling_. 

"And the Hare will never stop running," said Maglor, returning to his story, "or she'll be snatched up by the Fox."

"Never?" asked Elrond.

"Well—" Maglor paused to reconsider his own words. "When Arda is remade, then even the Hare can stop running and find some peace. Then she can rest in her burrow and be glad."

Elrond, pleased with this new ending of the story, put another berry in his mouth. When Arda was remade. It was a time that sounded far away, but also gave him hope. "Do you think that will really happen?"

"Of course I do," said Maglor.

Elrond glanced at Elros, who had fallen asleep already. Beside Elros was a silent Maedhros. His smile had faded, and Elrond wondered if he believed Arda would be remade. At the same time, he did not want to know the answer. Maedhros met his gaze and smiled again, but Elrond had caught sight of the darkness in his eyes. "I believe it, too," Elrond said. He wanted to believe it. Then they could all be together, and the Hare and the Fox would both be at rest. Elrond closed his eyes with that thought in mind. With the grass against his face, he dreamed of a soft, green place.

He was pulled from his gentle dream by a violent tug on his clothes. He found himself hauled to his feet. He swung his legs in confusion, trying to find his footing. It was still dark, and whirling shadows made the scene confusing. He heard rough shouts in a strange tongue, as large, dark shapes darted through the trees. The clearing had grown perilously small, and to his horror, he saw the earth before him rent by a spear thrust into the ground. Wasn't that where he'd been resting? Panic tightened around his throat, and he started to struggle in the strong grip that had pulled him up.

"Elrond." Maglor's voice in his ear lessened his panic. He was not caught by an enemy, but that did not change the fact that they were under attack. "All will be well. Stand by Elros."

Elrond turned, elated to see his brother there and whole, and he stumbled quickly to his side, catching hold of him as Elros took hold of him. Then he was aware of a piercing brightness, as Maglor's light flared. It was brilliant and pale, and was shortly matched by Maedhros' scarlet radiance. Both of them were transfigured, with the appearance of powerful spirits. Their blades were drawn, and when their attackers rushed them, they were as fluid and fast as water in flood. That flood swirled around him and Elros, bewildering them, but also keeping them safe. The strokes of their swords were a barrier no foe could penetrate, blades too swift to be clearly seen.

The sight of the Red Monster had once filled Elrond with fear, but now he was given hope by the great, shining, and merciless form that cut through their enemies, felling them with single strokes of his one hand. Maglor was not quite so fast or strong, but the difference was barely noticeable. For the first time, Elrond saw Maglor hew through flesh and bone, his movements smooth, the violence almost as natural to him as music was.

Elrond felt he lived a lifetime in the next few moments. A huge, misshapen beast lunged directly for him and Elros, but an instant before it reached them, Maglor's sword came down, severing its head from its shoulders. Blood splattered across Elrond's face. He clenched Elros' arm with one hand while he drew his knife with the other. Elros had drawn his own knife. The next time a creature charged at them, they struck back with twin blows. The beast drew back with a shriek, its movement sending more blood flying. A moment later, and Maglor plunged his blade into its eye. It fell, shuddered, and died.

That was another opponent gone, but more were coming. They made noises from the shadows. They were of the shadows. Hulking shapes and impossibly twisted bodies lurked among the bushes. They stilled when a deep thrum sounded, sweeping through the clearing and into the woods. It rushed through the trees, stirring the leaves. The attacking creatures cried out, crashing through the underbrush, trying to escape the sound. Their harsh cries were drowned out by this new, powerful noise. It grew louder, and not until he turned his head did Elrond realize that this low, powerful note rose from Maglor's throat. He had sheathed his blades and taken up song. This confrontational music almost seemed to have form, and there was a soft glow around Maglor's lips as he sang it.

Elrond barely had time to take in what he was seeing and hearing. Still singing, Maglor caught Elrond up in his arms, and Maedhros picked up Elros. They raced through the woods, putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the now bloodied clearing.

"Are you all right?" Maglor asked him. At some point, he had stopped singing. "Are you all right?" He did not seem to realize he had asked the same question twice. His eyes were wide, his bright skin smeared with dark blood.

"I'm not hurt," said Elrond. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm only glad you're well." Maglor stopped running and sank to his knees, holding Elrond tight and pressing a kiss to his forehead. "So glad." There were tears in his eyes, and Elrond found himself crying too.

"Are you hurt?" Maedhros asked, anxiously. He had kept running, but came back once he realized he had left them behind. His fiery glow was still warm around him, but fading. He returned Elros to the ground, but put an arm around him. All of them were bloody, but all of them were standing.

"No," said Maglor, tearfully. "We're not hurt." Now that they were all together, he pulled the four of them into a single embrace, holding them tight. "None of us are hurt."

They knew, of course they knew, that no place in Middle-earth was truly safe while the forces of the Great Enemy were abroad, but there had been times when they had _felt_ safe. It was a fine feeling to have. Moving in a small group as they did, traveling lightly and quietly, they had rarely faced direct threats. This night had been different. Elrond had felt close to death, though Maglor and Maedhros had kept them safe.

That night, they continued to hasten through the woods for a long while, leaving their battlefield far behind. When they finally settled down to rest, it was in a copse of great trees that offered them some protection and cover. Elrond curled up alongside Elros, nestled in the tree roots. Perhaps it was because they were so exhausted, but the roots made an oddly comfortable bed.

Elrond tried to sleep, but he couldn't sleep. He kept staring into the dark, listening. Waiting. Every rustle and sigh of the forest made him tense. 

"Kano." Maedhros' voice was soft, but Elrond was listening so intently that he could hear him clearly. He and Maedhros had wandered away from the copse, but not so far away that they could not return in an instant if needed. They must have thought that he and Elros were both truly asleep.

"Nelyo." Maglor said his brother's name with a strange reluctance. 

"You know what I'm going to say."

Maglor exhaled, breath ragged. "I know you well enough."

"We cannot keep them with us forever. The road we travel—" Maedhros broke off when Maglor interrupted him.

"And what if I don't want to travel it?" For once, Maglor's voice was sharp, cutting through the night like one of his blades.

Maedhros was silent. 

"What if I want to stay with them and care for them? Why, why do we have to—"

Maedhros said simply, "You know why. You know it would be best for them, if they did not come with us."

"Can't we wait, Nelyo? Can't we just stop? Until they're of age? It would not be so long. We could live like Elves. We could live our lives, for once—!" Tears broke his voice, interrupting his plea.

"Oh, Kano. Please, don't weep. I would say yes, if I could."

"Yet you will not. I hate it, I hate it." Maglor sounded as if he was in tears again. "I want to be free of it."

Elrond felt Elros' hand close on his and tighten. They were both awake, listening to their foster fathers in the dark. Elrond could not bear to hear Maglor weep so bitterly. Why couldn't they stay together? What was in the way? He wanted to rise and run to Maglor, to tell him not to cry, that it would be all right. That he would stay with him, even if it was dangerous. That none of them were hurt. Yet it did hurt, the thought of being left behind. The thought of losing his parents, again.


	7. Sad Songs

Elrond cupped the palantír in his hands, slowly tightening his grip. However tightly he held it, it would not break, it had been so cleverly and beautifully made—the work of a brilliant mind. Thousands of years later, he could not imagine the secret behind its creation. It had been saved from Sauron by the sea and never corrupted, and so it still bore the feel of its maker's bright spirit. Maglor had been given a part of that same spirit, by his father, when he was born. As marvelous as the palantír and the Silmarils were, Elrond could not believe that they were greater works than Fëanor's children, with all their bright promise. 

He knew what it meant to be someone's child, and as a father, he knew what it meant to have and love a child, and be called upon to make difficult, impossible choices. When Maglor had at last taken him and Elros to Gil-Galad's lands, he had held back his tears to spare them the sight of him weeping. Elrond had sensed them, nonetheless. He had not wanted to be left in anyone else's keeping. He had been bereft, all over again. He would have loved to own something of Maglor's, something he could keep to remember him by. Maglor had had so little to give, beyond his songs and stories.

Elrond had kept those songs and stories close to his heart, and now he had this dark crystal. He did not want to let go of it, as if it were the token he had wished for in his heart all those years ago: a physical sign of his father's love. There was no speech forthcoming from Maglor on what he meant Elrond to do with it. Elrond hoped he was correct when he guessed that Maglor wanted him to take the palantír back to Valinor, where it had been made. Back home. He remounted Asfaloth, tucking the palantír into one of the supply bags the horse so patiently carried for him.

How long could he traverse the shore before it grew too stony and cold and impassible? He would make an effort to go as far as he could, without bringing himself or Asfaloth harm. There was no logical reason for him to do so, but he felt he should push himself, as if this was a ritual he had to carry out for Maglor's sake.

Thinking on that idea as Asfaloth picked his way along the rough shore, Elrond spied a likely spot and brought them to a halt. Here, he spied a smooth patch of shore. There was a long span that was more sand than stone, an uncommon phenomenon in this region. He dismounted, leaning down to write in the sand. He pressed down with his fingers to form the curving Tengwar of Quenya, and he wrote:

_Makalaurë Kanafinwë, come to me. My need for you is great. I would see you again, no matter what has gone before._

He stepped back to examine his handiwork: his own sentiments written, in brief, across the shore. It was not precisely a poem, but it was true to the feeling in his heart. "I would see you again," he said aloud. This shore was silent but for the waves' voices, but he did not expect that Maglor would hear him. He could only hope that Maglor would read what he had written before the sea washed it away. He stood with Asfaloth for a long time, gazing at the words.

Several more days passed before Elrond was at last forced to turn back. Even in summer, Forodwaith was unyielding. The farther he went, the more sheer the shoreline became, and the less forgiving the terrain. The sea was rougher and colder, battering the stone shore with a determined fierceness that made Elrond suspect this must be one of Ossë's favorite haunts. The waves threw up foam in delight.

Having reached the limit of his journey, Elrond's spirits were not as low as he would have expected, so rebuffed by cliffs and ice. He still had hope. He would travel back along the shoreline, retracing his route. There was a long path ahead of him before he would turn decisively inland and head directly back to Rivendell. A long way meant many days' travel, which meant more chances for Maglor to relent and speak with him.

The long journey also meant more opportunities for him to worry that Maglor would not come to him. He had requested his father's presence by the simple fact of making this journey, as well as by his writing on the shore. What would happen to his father if he was left behind, when all other Elves were gone? Was it true he would continue to fade until he dwindled to nothing, little more than a ghost that no Man could see? Would his song fade to a hollow sound, which Men would have trouble distinguishing from the wailing of the wind? It was a chilling thought. No one had definitively determined what the ultimate fate of the Elves left here would be. Elrond preferred to think that the Creator, in wisdom and kindness, would remake Arda. Then, all the Elves who had been sundered would come together again.

Maybe it was too wonderful to be true, a story meant for Elflings, but he wanted to believe in it. Think of the joy there would be at a grand reunion of the Elves. The Halls would be emptied, families would be reunited, and lovers' separations would be ended. It would be a glad day. He could see Maglor again and introduce him to the rest of his family. Maglor would be returned to his brothers. Elrond would see Maedhros again, too. That was another Elf he understood so much better, now that he was older. 

Elrond would not know the truth of the matter for many long years. Maybe, once he reached Valinor, certain things would be made clearer. He did not expect to be told everything, but perhaps he would ask Gandalf about it. Gandalf could be elusive, but his sympathy might lead him to share truths that others would not. Gandalf he would see again, and soon—but that would be at the end of his journey, and he did not want to bring it to a close too soon.

Asfaloth's spirits rose as they put Forodwaith behind them. He had given no outward sign of discontent, but the way had been growing harder for him, and Elrond could tell he was glad to find his path growing progressively easier again. They did not travel too much each day, partly because he wanted to give the horse more time to rest, and partly because he wanted to give Maglor more time to think over his request.

Elrond had almost returned to Himring when he next heard Maglor's voice. The Sun was setting, leaving the world to the darkening purple of dusk. An Elven voice rose and drifted out over sea and shore. Elrond could tell at once that this song was different. Maglor's voice was stronger, more definite. Elrond listened with a sense of fascination that would never fade, as he had listened as a child lying in his bed to the complicated, unfamiliar song of his Noldor captor. 

Elrond drew in a breath, sharply. For the first time since Elrond had begun this journey, Maglor sang a song with words. Elrond knew these words. More than that, he knew the story behind them. This was the same song Elrond had heard on that long ago night, when he had been sleepless beside Elros in the dark. It was a famous song now, though he could not have known that then. The song told a story he had not known as an Elfling. He had been too young to be told of the violence and the fury of the Noldor as they bolted from Valinor. He had learned all that much later. 

Maglor had long ago promised that he would sing this song to him one day. Now he was keeping his promise, letting the Quenya lament flow like water from his throat and spread over a land that was thirsty for such music, when so much of the music of the Elves had faded. The land and the water drank in the song. It must have been heard for miles and miles. Such a strong voice.

This was true, old music. Elrond realized why Maglor had been limiting himself to wordless music. As he listened to the rich notes of Noldolantë pouring forth, he could see the events Maglor sang of, conjured into being before his eyes. They were vivid images, as clear if he were looking through a door into the past. He could almost step through it.

There stood Fëanor, clad in deep red, with his hair swept back over his shoulders and a jewel shining on his brow. Elrond had never seen Fëanor, and he was astounded by his brightness and the fairness of his face. Elrond felt Maglor's love for him, along with his sorrow and loss. Elrond looked upon this Elf he had never known and missed him bitterly. Fëanor smiled, and beside him stood his wife and his seven children. 

This was the full power of one of the greatest singers of the Elves: the power to make a song into a story, and a story into a vision; to bring emotion itself to life with the sheer might that lay at the root of music. The power of creation. As the tale began in earnest, another, shimmering sound rose to join in unison with Maglor's voice, and Elrond almost stopped breathing. Maglor was playing his harp. This was real power, a power as great as any magic. It was unlike sorcery, but no less astounding. Elrond realized how much Maglor had always been holding back when he sang to him before. He had had to hold so much back, for so long. He had been holding in all his grief, his regret, and his anger. He had not wanted to share them with a child, who would not understand. 

Now Elrond understood.

There was Fëanor, and there was Fingolfin beside him. There was Morgoth, in a fair form, compelling in a way Elrond could not have envisioned: silver and shadow. There were the Silmarils, lit from within with an impossible flame. He would have closed his eyes to protect them from the brilliance, but he could not look away. The white ships of the Teleri rose above a dark sea, gleaming in the moonlight. All figures and forms from history he knew well, having heard so much of them. Now he saw them through the eyes of someone who had been part of that history.

He watched the Fall of the Noldor, powerless to aid or advise them, powerless to stop them, because it had happened already. It felt like it was happening again for the first time, the pain so sharp. Elrond heard the screams of the Teleri and felt their blood, warm on his hands. He watched their white ships burn. He felt how Maglor had trembled and wept as he had put the vessels to the flame himself, overcome with horror but unable to disobey his father. His tears had slowly dried, his trembling replaced by grim calm.

Few now living had heard Maglor's own rendition of Noldolantë, a song that was so bright and harrowing. This was a rare gift. The power of Maglor's music could injure. He had sung to ward off Orcs and keep his people safe. Yet his control of it was perfect, and it hurt as much as he wished it to hurt. It pained Elrond, but that pain was purely emotional. Elrond was unsure of when he had started to weep. Maybe it was when Fëanor died in such fury and violence, or when Maedhros was taken by treachery and believed lost—but when Maglor's song faded away, his tears had already drawn numberless lines down his face.

Silence reigned again. Elrond sat within it, stunned. This song was a great work, full of power. For millennia, Maglor had been composing and refining it, infusing it with his thoughts and feelings, his hope and dread. It was Elven artistry and will married to the natural force of emotion. He had never experienced anything like it before.

As Elrond was about to recover his wits, music rose into the air again, a harp speaking to the night, tentatively at first, and then with greater assurance. He blinked in confusion, and Asfaloth snorted nearby. This was not the same song. It wrapped around him like a dream takes a sleeper, slowly and delicately, but with an almost physical force, like a cloak encircling him. A cloak of shadows and stars. Elrond was already bewildered, and this bewilderment increased when the singing began. It was not Maglor's voice. _Another singer—?_ But who could that be?

The answer came to him—as was the case with so many answers—when he sat and listened. This second song was no less beautiful or artfully crafted than the first, but it rose gradually and spread out branches like a tree, before bursting into life. It was Sindarin flowers in response to Noldorin flames. Elrond listened, with a deep sense of shock, to a song of Doriath. A song no less sad or less vivid than the first. The court of the silver-haired king and the shining queen returned to life. The kingdom that had been destroyed. And there, in the center of the song, where Elrond expected to find her dancing, was Lúthien, swaying and singing within the song, so searing in her skill that he gasped. His own great-grandmother. He had never been able to meet her and never would, but he could see her, here.

This new music was a wonder in its own right. It was sung in response to Noldolantë, but Elrond did not feel that it existed at odds with it. No, it had a sense of harmony, as if it intended to augment its sister song, Sindar and Noldor joining together in grief at what had been lost and in joy at what they had once had. Most of all, they sang of love: Maglor's love for his family and comrades, and this new singer's love for his people and his vanished home. 

Elrond rose to his feet. He had to find the source of this song before it faded or vanished. He had to find this singer; he had already begun to suspect who it was. As he rushed through the wilderness, he saw the world around him, but it was paired with the world conjured by the music. As distracting as that was, he did not pause until he pushed through a thin veil of branches and halted at the sight of a gleam of silvery hair among the trees. Having reached his goal, he stilled immediately. He had not wanted to interrupt the song, but to assure himself that its singer was real, and that he was correct in his supposition. 

The singer did not turn to face him, but continued in his work. Elrond had heard this story before, but he had never heard it sung by an artist of such skill, and it was humbling to hear the old tale made so new that he shuddered and wept and exulted as if he were living through those events. Facing away from Elrond, the singer took him through the known parts of the story, until the song veered away into unfamiliarity. He then learned of a long journey through unknown lands, with its own perils and heartbreaks that Elrond wondered at.

When this song was done, Elrond felt bereft, as he had when Noldolantë had ended. But then, the singer turned to face Elrond, slowly but purposefully, as if already aware of his presence. The unknown Elf smiled wearily, but Elrond felt that he already knew him, and not only because of his song's intensity. "Are you Daeron, of the Sindar?"

"It has been a long time since I was called by that name." Tall and glowing, this Elf had lived since the beginning, and it was a wonder to behold him.

"I am honored," said Elrond. "I had not thought to meet you here."

"I have come to the Sea at last," said Daeron. "It has drawn me. I did not know if I would find any other Elves waiting for me, or if there would be any way to make the passage. Yet here you are."

"I am here," said Elrond. "It is good fortune that you met me. And that I met you." How could he tell Daeron briefly of all that he had missed in his impossibly long absence? He could not, but there was one thing he would want to know. "I am Elrond, son of Elwing, of Thingol's line."

Daeron's eyes widened, and Elrond saw he had shocked the minstrel as much as he had been shocked. "You—" Daeron was unable to say much more than that, but in lieu of speech, he rose to meet Elrond and pulled him into an embrace. It was an informal greeting for two Elves who had never met before, but there was a deep reason for it. "I am more glad to hear that than you can know," said Daeron at last, releasing him.

Elrond was pleased to have brought him joy, though it felt a price too small for the precious song he'd offered. "I will guide you to the Havens, where ships depart for the Elvenhome. I plan to go there myself, before another year has passed."

"Our meeting is fortunate indeed." Daeron nodded, but he shortly turned away, peering into the darkness, toward the other song that had fallen silent. "That voice. I know it well. I heard it once before, though it was happier, then. I could never forget it."

He must have heard Maglor during the Mereth Aderthad, when music from all Elven peoples had rung out over the crystal pools of Ivrin. That would indeed have been a happier time for Maglor, with all his brothers with him and so much hope yet before him. Imagining it, Elrond could not help but smile. "It is Maglor, Son of Fëanor," he said, though the naming clearly was not needed.

Daeron leaned back and sang again. Now he did not sing his own song, but Maglor's. The first passage stirred into life: the passage that conjured the Fëanorians in their glory, in the days before they fell. Daeron sang a small portion of it, but it was enough to demonstrate that he remembered it precisely. An Elven master like Daeron or Maglor could learn a song after hearing it but once.

Moments later, another voice replied from a distance. It was Maglor again. He sang Daeron's song in return, Doriath rising from his notes. This exchange may have been the greatest wonder yet: two Elves from clans who had been so much at odds learning and singing each other's songs in peace, as they must have done at the Mereth Aderthad. Elrond wished that such fellowship and sharing could have replaced the turmoil of the First Age, but he was glad to have heard such a marvel as Noldolantë sung by Daeron of the Sindar. It was good to know that not all from the elder days who resurfaced were of ill intent. Daeron was weary, but he sang like a bird and looked on Elrond with kind eyes.

"Will he come to join us?" asked Daeron, but his tone indicated that he had already guessed at the truth.

"No, for his Doom is upon him."

Daeron lowered his head in grief, closing his eyes. It was hard to think of, after hearing Maglor's song. All knew the story of that Doom, even those who, like Daeron, had left their people behind in another Age. "I am sorry for it, though I well remember what evil he wrought."

"As do I," said Elrond. Daeron would not know Elrond's own story, having departed from Doriath well before Elrond was born. Daeron had many new tales awaiting him. He had been wandering so long—like Maglor, but also unlike. He could yet return to his people and live among them again. "He wrought much good as well, although he did not know it." Elrond had the benefit of hindsight to realize that without Maglor's hand raised before his brother's sword, the world would have had less hands to raise against the Shadow and ward it off.

"We can only hope that the good we do will outweigh the evil," said Daeron.

"That is so." Yet the evil Maglor had done still bound him, so he had not come to join them. Even so bound, he had kept his promise to sing Noldolantë for Elrond. He had always tried to keep his promises, for good or ill. 

"I will follow you, wherever you would lead me."

Though he was a descendant of Daeron's king, he did not consider himself Daeron's ruler—but he hoped to become his friend. "I will lead you home, then."

He could not delay in taking Daeron back to Rivendell. His search for his father had ended—an unusual journey from beginning to end. This was not a quest as clear as others' quests had been, but when had his path ever been clear? It had come to an end in song, and song was the beginning and end of all things. He had not gained what he'd sought, but he had a song, a minstrel and a palantír, and his duties and friends awaited him back home.


	8. Dark Wounds

The storm had been raging for days, and the Sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden behind clouds so dark they made Elrond shudder at shadowy memories. The great war that had churned the earth and blotted out all light was such recent history, the soil was still scored with deep battle scars. One could not look in any direction without seeing something charred or split or in some way wounded. With so much undone and in need of care, Elrond had dedicated himself to the rebuilding efforts, along with so many others. 

Through the day, he labored side by side with Elves who had fought beside him in the battle against the Great Enemy. Over the past months, beneath their hands, a city had begun to rise on the shores of the Gulf of Lhûn. It would be a new place of safety for Elves, and one that they would not allow to fall. They had named it Mithlond. In its rough infancy, its warmth and air of serenity were already so evident that he felt welcome there. Círdan had promised him a place in his household whenever he wished to stay, and he was grateful for the kind offer.

Even the harsh storm did not make him feel unwanted. He had remained safe and dry indoors throughout, although the sheer severity of the storm gave him pause, and restlessness gnawed at him. He could not stay still, pacing from window to window, beset by a compulsion to go outside. He could not say why he felt drawn out into the storm. He perceived no signs of damage or danger. He resisted the urge, but the feeling persisted, increasing in strength. 

It was not unknown for storms to bring misfortune, so Elrond decided to trust his intuition. When there was a lull in the winds, he put on his cloak and made his way to the door. The attendants made a noble attempt to convince him to stay indoors, out of the weather, but he consoled them by assuring them he would be back soon. Because something might be amiss, he brought a sword and some supplies that might be useful, including his healing kit.

The wind had calmed, but the sky was dark in all directions, and Elrond knew the quiet was a temporary one. His first destination was the harbor, where he inspected the ships, but he found nothing amiss at the docks. The Elves living here had some skill in predicting storms, and they had prepared for the wind and rain beforehand. Unsure of what had pulled him outside, Elrond continued to listen to his impulse rather than his reason, and he found himself walking toward the limits of the city. 

He soon realized his urge to leave the house had not been a matter of intuition or a mystical sense. It was a simple matter of hearing. His sensitive ears had picked up on a noise without his mind registering the truth of it. Now it was clear enough for him to recognize it as a sound distinct from wind and water, but not clear enough that he could tell what sound it was.

The city was so young that it had not begun to blend into its surroundings, and its limits were abrupt. One moment he was on a street, with buildings on either side, and in the next moment, he found himself traversing the untamed shore. The waters of the gulf were usually cool and blue, but the storm had conflicted them into a dark gray dotted with debris. The farther from the city Elrond went, the louder and more distinct the sound that had drawn him became. He quickened his pace. The wind quickened too, picking up again, making its displeasure felt over the sand and water. 

Someone was singing on the shore, far enough from the city to be out of sight, yet with a voice so substantial, Elrond had sensed it in the middle of a city, in the middle of a storm. Elrond started to run. Elrond's breath picked up along with the wind, quicker and erratic—not because he was running, but because he had begun to sob. 

He ran as swiftly as an Elf could, not disturbing the sand, but his mind felt so wild, he thought he would stumble with every step. Familiar and strange, a voice unlike any other sang to him, and he ran toward the singer until he saw the huddled Elven figure on the shore. Even then, he did not slow, continuing to run until he was at the figure's side, gazing into the familiar yet strange face of his foster father.

Maglor's eyes were wide. He stared ahead at the water as he sang, but he faltered when Elrond called to him. "Father, it's me. I'm here." 

Maglor did not stop singing, but his song grew halting, breaking into fragments. His face was drawn and pained. Although he stared, he did not seem to see what lay ahead, a blankness in his eyes that Elrond had never seen there, in the days he had lived with him. Elrond knelt beside him "Father, it's Elrond."

This was enough to startle Maglor out of his trance, for he stopped singing and repeated, softly, "Elrond."

"I'm here now." He had not seen his father since Maglor had left him and Elros in Lindon, embracing them and trying not to weep. He had not known whether Maglor had survived the war. Now it was his turn to embrace his father. He put his arms around him and was surprised to find that Maglor felt smaller and more frail. "All is well," he said, although Maglor did not seem well.

"Elrond," said Maglor again. 

Elrond did not want to let him go. He had not expected to see him again, after all that had happened. It felt like a blessing. Yet he could already tell Maglor was much changed. He did not return Elrond's embrace, as he would have instantly, in the past. He trembled faintly, and Elrond drew back to study him with greater care. He was dressed in tattered, weatherworn robes, and on his back was the familiar shape of a harp, though the instrument was wrapped tightly to protect it from the weather.

Maglor started to sing again, softly. As he did, he reached out toward the water, and Elrond, to his horror, saw that Maglor's hands were darkened with raised and whirling scars, as if he had been burned. Elves rarely scarred. Usually their skin would become completely whole again after healing—but severe or magical wounds might leave a mark. Elrond reached out to take—not Maglor's hand, but his uninjured wrist, holding it gently. "I am so glad to see you again."

Maglor blinked, and his singing continued for several more moments. Elrond was not sure if Maglor had absorbed his words, until suddenly, the song stuttered to a stop, and Maglor turned to stare at him. "Why?" he asked.

"Why would I not be glad? I have missed you so." As Elrond spoke, he kept a smile on his face, but he felt the sorrow within would split his heart in two.

"We brought you so much hurt."

Elrond thought of his mother, of course he did. He thought of those who had died in the Kinslaying, and it pained him. He was angry, especially now that he was older and could better understand the extent of the wrong that had been done. He had, more than once, imagined speaking to Maglor as an adult and reckoning with him, sorting through his complicated emotions—but in his imagination, Maglor had not been unwell. What good would it serve to rail against this Elf who had been so damaged, who trembled and sang alone on the shore? What good would it do to choose harsh justice over gentle mercy? For all his severity in the Kinslayings, Maglor had always shown him gentleness and mercy. Elrond had a better grasp of both the power of mercy and the horror of violence now. It was hard-won knowledge, but it showed him how Maglor's own violence had damaged him deeply. "Come with me, Father. The storm is not yet passed. Mithlond is near."

Maglor shook his head, vehemently. He was soaked through, and his hair was wet from the rains and the wild salt spray. "I cannot go. I cannot go into the city."

"For a little while, at least. Only until the storm has gone."

"Elrond, I am so sorry," said Maglor.

"I know it. I am sorry, too, for much that happened, but we cannot change it. We must look ahead."

Maglor nodded, slowly, but he turned to face the water again, his expression growing more remote. He opened his mouth. Elrond waited for him to speak again, but he returned to his song. It was a wordless song, by turns sharp and sighing, voicing his pain. Following Maglor's gaze, Elrond noticed a disturbance in the water. Because Maglor's song was no ordinary song, the water responded to it: waves ran toward him from all directions, as if eager to listen. Pale with foam, they stretched out toward him, lengthening as if to comfort him with their touch. The wind whirled around him, and even the sand swirled about him. All Elven song had power in it, but Maglor's was imbued with a strength and beauty that could move or still the natural world. Even this sad, speechless song was a beautiful one. 

"Come with me," said Elrond again.

"We tried to take the Silmarils," said Maglor.

Elrond tightened his grip on Maglor's wrist, but not enough to hurt him. He did not want to let him go.

"We could not hold them. They burned."

"Your poor hands," said Elrond, understanding the wounds now.

"It was our fault. We did what we should not. I knew we should not. I knew—but I did it, all the same. I did it, and I should have told him no. I should have tried to stop him—" He pressed his hands against the wet sand. Elrond did not let go of him, painfully aware of the fact that Maglor spoke of _we_ when he was alone here. He did not want to ask what had happened, and he did not ask when Maglor said, in a broken voice, " _Maitimo_ —" He wept.

Elrond kept his hold. In the midst of his tears, Maglor suddenly looked up. Elrond felt him tense. With an unexpected burst of strength, he rose, his body straining forward, his gaze fixed on the water. Elrond released his wrist and tried to grasp his shoulders. Maglor contended with him, his body fighting to break free, to reach the water. Elrond did not know what he intended to do, but he feared that his father would do himself harm. Maglor was strong, but he was weakened by his trials. Elrond held him until Maglor seemed to accept his will and abandoned his struggles, going still in his arms.

"Why?" demanded Maglor, his voice jagged, broken by sobs. "Why must we suffer so? Because we loved our father? Because we wanted to help him?" Elrond had never known him to show such anger, but it blazed forth from him, his eyes shining with a light that must have been an echo of Fëanor's brightness. "Why did you do this?" He did not address Elrond, but the sky and the sea—and the Valar.

In the face of such fury, Elrond was not sure what to do. He should have known Maglor had such rage in him, but experiencing it was another matter. When he was a child, Maglor had never said a harsh word to him. Maglor was shaking, and Elrond stroked his hair as if his father was the child, and he was the parent offering comfort. 

"I grieve with you," said Elrond. His first meeting with Maedhros had been full of fear and horror, but so many other memories had since gathered around the tall Elf. It was impossible to feel any single emotion at the thought of him. Grief, however, was one of them. "You are much hurt. Come back to the city with me, if only for a short while. I can heal you."

"I cannot. My Doom is still on me. I will bring harm with me."

Elrond could not agree, but Maglor's reason was gone. He would not listen, no matter what Elrond said to him. He clutched at the sand and insisted, or brokeinto fragments of song. He shouted at the Valar again. He was so transformed. Every so often, he fell silent again and gazed out over the sea. What was he looking for? Was it the Silmarils, lost Beleriand, or his vanished brothers? Was it all of them? 

"Let me look at your hands, then." Maglor complied with this request, trustingly offering both his hands to Elrond, palms up. The scars were dark and must have pained him. They must also have affected his harp playing. Elrond was glad he had brought his healer's kit with him. He had had to use it too often during the war, and it was second nature for him to carry it. He was afraid that if he returned to Mithlond to fetch more supplies, Maglor would disappear in his absence; he seemed so like a ghost. "I will do what I can to help." 

It was tragic that this son of Fëanor should bear the same wounds as the Great Enemy, who had touched the Silmarils without leave. The nature of the wounds was such that they would not heal easily, but Elrond knew the language of herbs far better than he had when he had once happily taught Maglor their names in the forests of Beleriand. "Look. Do you remember this one?" he asked, holding up one of the plants.

"Heartsease," said Maglor, slowly.

"Yes. And here is redbalm. Remember the woods where we found them?" A pleasant memory might bring him some ease, a balm in its own way.

"We went walking there." He was not so gone that he could not remember.

"That's right. I have made a salve of them. If I mix it with this, it will be good for the scarring. It should make your fingers more flexible."

Maglor nodded. There were tears in Maglor's eyes, but his gaze was clearer. He blinked, as if waking from sleep. "Here," said Elrond. "I will put this on your hands, then press my hands to yours."

They knelt on the shore together, and Maglor held his father's wounded hands and felt the warmth of healing kindled between them. "I loved you well," said Maglor, at last.

"And I love you, Father."

"You do not have to call me that. I should not have let you—"

"I called you that because I wished to."

Maglor lowered his eyes, but he did not argue.

"I will ask you once more to return with me to Mithlond, if only briefly. You can have food and rest before you go, at least."

Maglor looked up again, and Elrond knew his answer by his expression alone. That Fëanorian fire was burning in his eyes, and it was not a flame to deny lightly. Not for the first time, Elrond believed Maglor was wrong. He did not need to torment himself endlessly. A Doom was on him, but that did not mean he would doom a city by simply entering it. Elrond himself had not been doomed, and he had lived in Maglor's company for years. 

"I cannot go with you." 

"I will not ask you again, then," said Elrond, though it was not what he wished to say.

"I know I should not say it, but I wish I could have truly been your father." 

Elrond thought of the real father he could but dimly remember. He did not wish to betray Eärendil, and yet he could not deny Maglor. "There were many things that I wish had gone differently. You were not my only father, but you were my father when I needed you."

The tears standing in Maglor's eyes were grateful ones, but his sadness had not left him. "Is Elros also well?"

"He is," said Elrond, smiling. "I will tell him I saw you. He will be so glad to hear it."

"Will you— and will you tell him I am sorry?"

"I will, if you wish me to." There was very little he would have denied Maglor in this moment, but Maglor wanted so little. "I do not think he would ask you to say it."

Maglor's mouth twisted. It was like a smile. "I love you both so well."

The wind was picking up. The storm was making its voice heard again and stirring the waters. "I don't want to let you go," said Elrond. "Father, I have lost so many people already. It will pain me to lose you, too."

"But I will see you again," said Maglor, and he sounded completely lucid in that moment.

Elrond was taken aback. He did not know how to take that remark. He wondered how Maglor could say such a thing with such certainty. He had a way of making claims that convinced you to believe them. Was that the poet in him? There was such weight to his words that Elrond felt they might be true, no matter how unlikely they seemed.


	9. Pale Ship

This was the last time he would see Rivendell. Elrond took his time contemplating the familiar steep walls of the gorge, crowned with green. The Bruinen rushed on, heedless of his departure. He hoped the river would be kind to the Men who would live here in future years. Each stone and tree and flower here was dear to him, each a friend, and he would miss them. A new home meant a former one left behind, and Rivendell had been the finest home he could have asked for. It had kept him and so many others safe, and it had offered sanctuary and rest to travelers who were weary or in peril. 

The party was gathering, preparing to depart. Erestor checked and re-checked their supplies. It was not necessary, but Erestor found ease in having a task to occupy him. There was, in fairness, much to attend to before their departure, but Erestor was so thorough, it was unlikely he would make a mistake. Elladan and Elrohir, who were determined to escort their aged father to the Havens, indulged themselves in a little merriment, asking Erestor about matters he had already attended to, inspiring him to check again. These light jokes were a shadow of their childhood mischievousness, but it made Elrond smile to see them at it, and he suspected Erestor was indulging the twins by taking their queries so seriously. 

Erestor had taken it upon himself to assist Daeron in readjusting to Elven society throughout the months Daeron had resided with them. Solicitous Erestor made sure he was comfortable, deeply impressed by the esteemed minstrel of the Sindar. Lindir, too, was frequently found at Daeron's side, sharing songs and stories with him with great enthusiasm, intent on teaching Daeron all the lore he had missed in his long absence from these lands. Daeron, in return, shared remote lore he had learned in the North and East. Elrond had rarely seen Lindir so unreservedly cheerful. 

More cheerful than Lindir was Bilbo. Though the Hobbit was often weary, Daeron's arrival had roused him considerably, along with the prospect of their coming departure. Bilbo had unsurprisingly heard much about the Elven minstrel and engaged him in extended talks that Daeron was the equal of. Daeron had been so long wandering, he was eager for any and all converse. Once Gildor had joined the company at Rivendell, he had attached himself to Daeron's growing coterie, and all of them sang songs and recited poems to each other. Noldo or Sinda, it made no difference now; the Elves were of one people in these waning days of peace. Elrond was pleased to see that Daeron had already found such devoted friends. Companionship had lifted the veil of his sorrow, and his eyes shone with the pleasure of it. 

Elrond had surprised the residents of Rivendell by venturing out in search of one legendary minstrel and returning with another. As they knew how complicated his feelings concerning his foster father were, they had not made light of this result, but they marveled at it. His journey had not ended as he had expected, but few such journeys did. Elrond was glad he had made the attempt. He had seen so much of Middle-earth that he would never see again, places he had visited in his youth that, though much changed, were still dear.

No place was dearer to him than Maglor was. Maglor had sung to him, had left him messages and gifts. Maglor had shown his love, and he had expressed his wish that Elrond find healing for the hurts Maglor—and others—had given him. Their conversation had been unconventional, as their relationship had been, but no less a conversation despite it. In a way, he had seen his father again.

After writing his message in the sand on the far, cold northern shore, asking Maglor to come to him, Elrond had started to ride away with Asfaloth. He had not gone far. He had halted, then returned. He had stood again on the shore, contemplating the gray sea, watching the waves. He had remembered how the waves had reached out their arms to Maglor while he was singing: an unearthly sight. The waters yearning for him, reaching for him, but unable to touch him while he remained on the shore. Elrond felt much the same as those waves. After a long while spent standing on the shore, Elrond had leaned down and written a few more words in the sand, a short and simple phrase: _Father, I forgive you._

He hoped his father had read it, because he would not have a second chance to tell him, not with his ultimate departure looming so near.

Glorfindel, his gleaming hair visible from a distance, was supposedly helping Erestor with his work. In truth, he was encouraging the twins. Glorfindel was not yet ready to make the crossing, but he would be riding with them to Mithlond, in Asfaloth's company again. While Elrond had had Asfaloth in his keeping, he had left something of his with Glorfindel. He had not wanted to take Vilya on his long, lonely journey. Now the ring glowed contentedly from its home on his finger.

How odd, to think that Maglor's nephew had made this ring, and that the three Elven rings of power had aided so much in the preservation of the Elves—in their gentle way, by providing strength to all, rather than aggrandizing their masters. Quietly, subtly, they had done a great work—it was possible that only the bearers of the Three Rings knew the extent that the world was indebted to Celebrimbor, and so, the Fëanorian line. Celebrimbor's help and healing had endured. As had Maglor's actions, because he had saved Elrond and Elros' lives. The Fëanorians had done harm, but the good they had done had lasted into this new age. Elrond was only distantly a Fëanorian, by association, but he smiled to think of it.

"Some fair thought struck you just then, I see." 

He turned to offer that smile to Galadriel, who had come upon him silently. Their company was assembling without haste beneath the trees in their first flower. It would be a leisurely journey, as all of them wanted to linger and say their farewells to the lands they loved so well but had to leave behind. "So it did," he admitted. There was little point trying to hide anything from her, so he did not.

"Like a beam of sunlight on your face. If you would not share it, then I will not pry, of course." The light of Nenya brightened in response to Vilya's presence, as if the rings were siblings glad to be reunited. 

"I was thinking of Makalaurë and of his family."

"Yes, my cousin is dear to you." She was familiar with Elrond's journey, and what had transpired. "He would be glad to make you smile, if he could know it. I am sure nothing would please him more."

Elrond well remembered how joyfully Maglor had told stories, written songs, and devised games to cheer him and Elros. It was true that nothing had seemed to give him more delight than when they were delighted. Rarely had Father ever denied any of their requests for more song and story, and few Elflings could have been more blessed with music and tales. He did not doubt Galadriel's words, but in spite of his recent smile, they struck a chord of sadness in him. 

The emotion must have shown on his face, because Galadriel's own expression grew more grave. "If he stayed away, it must have been because he did not want to hurt you," she said. "It would be hard, would it not, to rejoin him only to be forced to leave him again so soon?"

"That is so, but it may be a prize worth the price."

"Many are, though we will not know that for certain until we have paid." She nodded, falling into step beside him as they walked slowly beneath white blossoms. "Yet it could be his own pain as well that he considers—and he that he wishes to protect you from."

"You knew him—before."

"So I did. Gentle, generous Maglor, strong of voice and light of foot, always glad to give us a song when we asked him, or bear us on his shoulders without complaint. All his brothers were dear to us." She was speaking of herself and her own brothers, lost before Elrond was born. He had heard tales of them from Maglor himself, so he felt as if he knew them. "They were not then what they later became, after the Shadow had fallen across their family."

Before Elrond could say more, she took his hand and clasped it tightly. "Leaving him will be hard, but fear not, we will meet him again."

Her words echoed those Maglor had spoken. He wondered if she was referring to the time of Arda's mending, which still felt distant and unknowable: the day they hoped for but had not precisely been promised.

"Maglor always thought a little differently than everyone else," said Galadriel. "You are like him in that way. Some may say it is because you are Peredhel, but that cannot be the only reason. So—though we may seek to know him, he will always keep some things to himself. You will understand that better than I."

She was not wrong, and he was glad to have her insight, and to have someone with him who shared his compassion for his father. "Would he come if he could?" Galadriel asked, thoughtfully, before answering her own question. "I think he might well. For your sake, if not for his own. But this is not his time." She lowered her eyes and laughed. "Even I am fortunate to be allowed to depart."

"As I am fortunate to be traveling with you," said Elrond. They shared a glance, and they knew each other so well that they did not need to speak aloud what passed between them. They would soon see Celebrían, and their joy was so great that it surpassed speech. It sang in the light of their eyes. There would be so many reunions soon. The sorrow of partings did not dim them, but silver partings and gold reunions glowed together, like the Two Trees of old, both radiant in their way, because they were born of love.

He had already said farewell to Arwen and Aragorn. Those of the Elves he knew who were not yet ready to depart had paid their regards, if they were able. His final expedition involved its own trials, but he had not thought it would be easy. That was not a quality his experiences had taught him to expect. Yet he did not wish those who went with him to know his doubt and grief. They had their own trials, and they needed his support. For their sakes, he would keep that knowledge to himself, even if they should guess at it. Perhaps, as Galadriel had suggested, he had learned that from Maglor. 

Throughout their ride to the Havens, the Elven travelers—and Bilbo—took their turn in song. Elrond often accompanied the singers on his harp. It was impossible for him to play without thinking of his greatest teacher, Maglor—his playing was a ghost of the master's, but he took every compliment he was given for his playing to reflect on Maglor's talent rather than his own. 

He was playing when they met Sam and Frodo near the Shire, but he lowered his harp in order to greet them. It warmed Elrond to see them again, although he could tell how deeply Frodo was yet affected by his wound. It weighed on his very spirit, a burden his fellow Hobbits could not have fully perceived. He was glad they were taking Frodo with them now, rather than later, to a place where that burden could be lightened. It was a weight he should not have to bear alone. Their party became both more merry and more sad, as Bilbo was reunited with his nephew, and as the reality of their departure grew more immediate. Their time was dwindling.

The Havens gleamed. The city had its own light, born of the care and life of generations of Elves who had kept it and each other safe for thousands of years. The ship that awaited them gleamed also, as did Gandalf, who was waiting beside it. He had already begun to change from the aged figure Elrond had known for so long, the light within threatening to blaze through the form he wore. Their gazes met, and as with Galadriel, much passed between them without needing to be said. Gandalf saw through him, and most likely even saw the palantír he bore with him. Gandalf nodded in Elrond's direction. It was a sign of acknowledgement, but he could be the most enigmatic of figures, and Elrond did not comprehend all that the gesture had encompassed. He did know for certain that Gandalf was glad to see them. Narya, on his finger, brightened in warm greeting. 

For his part, Gandalf had brought more Hobbits with him, and it was a pleasure to see all of them together again, sharing their talk and laughter. He had not known their people as well as he might have, but was fortunate to have come to know them at this late date. The parting would be harder on them, yet he had learned well how resilient they could be. Perhaps he could learn more from them. He was sure they still had much to teach him, and that was a prospect to look forward to. 

He did not interfere with the Hobbits' leavetaking. He spoke with his sons. He had some few final words to give them, and he clasped their hands before drawing them into an embrace. He had hope that he would see them again, but if that day was to come, he did not know when. They reminded him so much of himself and Elros. He could not help but hope the two of them would choose the same fate, whichever it was. When he let them go, he looked for the last time on this land where his brother had lived. Elros had chosen to give his life to Middle-earth and its people, as Arwen had. It was not an unwise choice—no, he could understand it—but it retained the power to cut through him at certain moments.

When the company embarked, a stillness fell, as the ship glided through the waters. It was like a dream, though Elrond was fully awake. He watched the faces of his companions. This last journey would be a long one, but he was in good company. The war was finally over. 

He was already leaving Middle-earth, but parts of his heart remained—along with his children and his father, and others who were dear to him. He was leaving at the right time—the sea and the Elvenhome beyond were calling to him, more insistently than ever. This was the time, and he was in good company, but that did not mean he could not feel sorry to depart, a mixture of joy and sorrow permeating his spirit. Despite the conversation murmuring among the other passengers, he fell quiet and said little, watching the shore grow farther away, picturing each one of his loved ones as he did so.

The shore nearest to the ship as they sailed seaward was a rocky one, with a cliff face rising above it. When movement flickered at the edge of Elrond's gaze, he turned to spy a figure emerging from the evergreen woods atop the cliff. He saw immediately that it was an Elf, with familiar dark hair and a tall, slender build. Elrond gasped at the sight. It would have been impossible to confuse this Elf with any other. He held on tight to the ship's bulwark to steady himself.

Elrond was frozen in place at the port side of the ship, near the stern, staring at the figure of his father as Maglor slowly walked along a ledge that appeared to lead down toward the shore. He was made more visible by the pale cliff face at his back. Maglor's robes were grayed and frayed. They must have been sewn and repaired many times over. They were tattered at the edges, where the fibers had begun to disintegrate, beyond the power of any to bind them together again. Maglor stood facing the sea with his arms folded. His blades rested in their sheaths at his hips, and he still bore the distinctive harp on his back. Maglor had carried the instrument all this way, all these years. It was not wrapped, and Elrond could just glimpse the gleam of its wood. It was a shine more precious than gold, that of an object cherished and well-tended. An object with a purpose and a voice. After such a long life and such strange experiences, it must have had a spirit of its own.

The rosy light of the sun sinking toward the western horizon lit the lone figure on the stony shore, giving him and the rocks around him a faint reddish glow, while deepening the shadows beneath the trees above the cliff. The wind tugged at Maglor's hair and robes. He did not look like a figure from a dream. He was real, and he was weary.

Elrond stared at that loved figure, his eyes widening. Even at this distance, he could see every detail of him. Maglor's expression was solemn, and at first, he stared out at the water as if he did not see anything before him. Then, his eyes focused. His gaze caught and held Elrond's. Elrond was glad to meet his gaze; he did not look away. Maglor did not tremble and bow as if broken, as he had the last time they had seen each other. Instead, he unfolded his arms. He took his harp in his hands. He began to play. He opened his mouth, and what emerged was beyond music precisely because it embodied music so completely. 

The song he played— It was unlike Noldolantë, without the burdensome, if beautiful, grief that wrenched any listener's heart. There was sorrow and regret in this song, too, but how much more happiness! It wound around Elrond, both grounded and soaring. Before him, he saw the image of a cave by the sea. Elrond remembered that cave so well. He watched it grow larger and closer, and he knew what this song was about. 

Then Elrond was at Elros' side again in that sea-cave lit by Maedhros' fell light. He was running through the woods again. He was sitting on Maglor's shoulders, while Elros was carried along by Maedhros. Herbs grew around them, and flowers bloomed in profusion. Maglor was pointing up at the stars. He was telling a story about the Hare. Shadows swirled around them. Maglor was dancing. His sword was flying through the air, cutting through the bodies of their enemies. Maglor was searching in the long grass for berries. He was always, always, looking after Elrond and Elros. He was guiding them to Lindon, where they would be safer than they could be with him. He was trying not to weep as he told them he would see them again. He would always be doing those things, because they were in his song, and his song was alive. It was now. Elrond was listening to it, and he would never forget it.

Elrond was dimly aware of the others murmuring in the ship behind him. They must have heard the song. They must have been curious, or amazed, but someone—Gandalf or Galadriel or perhaps both—must have kept the others away from him. Or else they understood that they shouldn't disturb him, because this was so obviously a song for him. He was allowed to stand alone and share this last moment with his father. Would he see Maglor again after this? He did not know, but he wanted to believe it. He would believe it, but he would enjoy this moment as if it were the last. He raised his hand, in greeting and in farewell. _Makalaurë, Son of Fëanor_ , he said without speaking, mouthing the words that would not be heard above the song and the growing distance between them. _I will wait for you_.

Waves ran through the water, but they were not reaching toward Maglor this time. They ran, small and swift and white-capped and eager, after the departing ship. Reaching out to it. As if wishing it a good journey and waving good-bye.


End file.
